


Not Okay

by WeaglesAndBrobeans



Series: Stick and Puck [3]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Loss, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21997447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeaglesAndBrobeans/pseuds/WeaglesAndBrobeans
Summary: A Drabble about the undoubtedly painful season of life that our dear flower is in following the loss of his father.People need to wake up to his humanity so hear it is- a touch of raw exposed emotion
Series: Stick and Puck [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567933
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Not Okay

**Author's Note:**

> My dad died earlier this year so when I saw some VGK fans complaining about his play I raged and then I wrote this

Grief is strange. Strange in the way it fills your head with cotton and carves out your chest like a butchers knife. It throws off your equilibrium. 

Grief is also cruel. Cruel in the way it steps back and tricks you into thinking it might just be fading away. But then it returns, steamrolling you like a forward with eyes only for the puck- uncaring if the net is shoved off its moors, uncaring if you find yourself landing hard with your back against the ice and lungs gasping for breath. Yes grief is cruel.

Fleury knew he wouldn’t have much time. Life moves on and all that. And he’s been grateful for the bereavement granted following his father’s passing. Yet, as much as he wanted to be ready. He wasn’t.

Even during his pregame warmups, he groaned as for the third time a tennis ball zinged passed his outstretched hand. His mind kept traveling.

He needed to just wake up. He needed to get his act together. That’s what the media was whispering. What the fans were proclaiming. He needed to figure out how to stuff that gaping hole in his chest. He needed to sort how to numb the pain.

Vera said otherwise. She had grabbed his face between her delicate hands, eyes aflame yet solemn. “Healing takes time my love. Nobody gets to have a say on this timeline. Nobody but you.”

Yet here he was, tremors running through his usually sure hands. Pretending he was fine. Grinning as he shook the hands of another teammate’s father.

“A pleasure to meet you,” fell from his lips but his heart aches deeply. Nothing could be farther from the truth. This whole trip was a genuine displeasure. Salt generously poured into a fresh and throbbing wound.

He lost again. Over 20 goals in six games. This wasn’t him. But he wasn’t sure what he could be doing differently. Everything felt tilted on an axis and he was doing his best but- apparently that just wouldn’t suffice.

Head tucked down as his teammates left side by side with their fathers, Fleury walked quickly to his car. Finally alone he felt the tension drain away as a wave of sadness crashed into him.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Hot tears poured down his cheeks as he choked on sob after sob and he couldn’t catch his breath, he couldn’t find air.

Breathing is supposed to be automatic. It’s not taught. It comes naturally. But a bitter laugh- or maybe a wail- escapes his lips because nothing. Nothing comes naturally anymore. Nothing.

Shaking as he rode this wave of anguish, Fleury curled his knees up to his chin, fingers clutching the steering wheel that dug into his shins.

The world felt like it was spinning out of control and he couldn’t do anything to make it stop.

A sharp tap on the window sent a jolt through his heart. Glancing up through the blur of his tears he couldn’t see who had knocked. But it apparently didn’t matter because they could now see him.

They could see just how far he’s fallen. They could see him breaking apart.

The door swung open and, in a blink, sure arms wrapped around him. A firm yet comforting hand guided his head into the crisp fabric of a game day suit. 

Fleury cried harder. 


End file.
